


Memento Mori

by Starry_Emerald173



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pacific Rim (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, I honestly do not know where this one is going, Jaegers (Pacific Rim), Loss, Recovery, The Drift (Pacific Rim), bisexual!reader, fem!reader - Freeform, will update tags as chapters are added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28080252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starry_Emerald173/pseuds/Starry_Emerald173
Summary: Memento Mori - a reminder of the inevitability of deathIt's a lesson you learned well, a long time ago, when the rending of Kaiju claws tore out part of your soul.But Marshall Fury and the Jaegar program aren't done with you yet
Relationships: Carol Danvers/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. Of Hope And Hatred

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Sooo this is probably going to end up a Stucky x Reader fic at some point (because, hey, literally everything I write ends up there), but it's going to be a slow burn, baby.
> 
> TW: Referenced, and implied, suicide
> 
> I'll try to keep the tags up to date, and include warnings on content in the a/n on each chapter

Marshall Fury hates the wall.

Hates the funding it’s stolen from the Jaeger program, the ugly bulk of it rising up against the backdrop of the Alaskan coast. Hates its utter ineffectiveness against the rising Kaiju threat.

Mostly he hates the false hope it instills in people - the idea that the war will ever stop, that it will stop without the cost of good lives and good people and more loss than those neat-as-pin politicians can dream up in their little spreadsheets and tabulations in the capitol.

He knows well the cost of war after all this time.

He also hates the smell of several thousand unwashed workers passing through the same confined space at the end of the day shift while he waits for his quarry.

He hates that it’s come to this - that he has to hunt you down, here, at the ass end of the world, where you’re clearly hiding. Where you’ve more than earned the right to hide.

In truth, he doesn’t want to be here at all.

But he desperately needs pilots.

And he needs _ you _ .

He needs someone broken enough to be malleable, but not so shattered as to be useless. Someone who knows how to ride the drift, fight in a Jaegar. Someone who can skip months - years - of training and most importantly, someone who can be  _ controlled _ .

You are all of these things, and this is the shithole of a hiding place you’ve made for yourself - following the construction jobs for food rations along the coastal wall with thousands of others.

It offends him - the principal of it. Hundreds of thousands of dollars to train you. A meteoric rise through the ranks with your partner. And what are you now? A welder on a wall that isn’t going to work.

For what?

All it would take is one strong gust, one icy beam, and then all that potential will have been wasted as you fall from the wall to your death.

Maybe that's why you chose it.

God knows he's seen enough shell-shocked pilots choose that way - though most of them are more direct about it. A bottle of pills, a gun, a warm bath and unguarded razor...Pilots don't tend to outlive their partners, and that's before you factor in what retirement does to you anyway.

The foreman flags you down from the crowd making their way to the exits and he can read the emotions across your face like a book, despite the amount of dirt on it. 

Surprise, shock, anger, fear. Acceptance as you see the trailing marines with him.

“Step into my office,” You snark with only a fraction of the fiery temper he recalls from your previous interactions. Going through the motions, he thinks, as he follows you towards the husk of the looming framework of the wall. "What can I do for you, Marshall?"

The exchange goes about as well as can be expected. Neither one of you will accept kindness from the other, so it’s barbed phrases and sharpened quips back and forth and he almost,  _ almost _ , feels bad when he brings up your partner’s name and hears the half-halted intake of air that says he’s hit you where it hurts before your eyes flash fire and you tell him to, in no uncertain terms, fuck off.

Which is when he brings out the big guns, applies pressure to your break-point.

The fire vanishes from your eyes, gone flat and cold and as lifeless as the wall you’ve been working on. It’s what he needed, what he planned for, what he set out to do. Nicholas J. Fury does not have the luxury of giving a damn about your feelings, your wants,  _ you _ , beyond what the Jaeger program requires. Because the Jaegar program is what is required for humanity to survive, and that... _ that _ is the thing that lets him sleep at night with everything that he’s done, everything that he’s capable of  _ doing _ . 

So he reacts not at all as the real fight goes out of you and his own callousness slices away another part of his soul. He’s got you over a barrel, and you know it too, if the flat anger he can see burning in your eyes is any indication.

Good.

He can use anger.


	2. Gone & Golden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Sadness and grief warnings
> 
> Also, here I am *again* working on another WIP instead of, oh, I dunno, FINISHING MY EXISTING ONES 😆😭

You don’t speak a word to the Marshall as the chopper heads for Shatterdome.

What is there to say?

Most of it would be meaningless because it would be you pleading with him not to do this, not to force you back to a world that will scrape you open and hollow and raw and leave you...leave you broken beyond any hope of repair just when you feel like you’ve finally collected the fragments of you again. 

You shattered a while ago, and all those pieces of who you once were may only slice you to ribbons, inside and out, but they’re still  _ you _ , and getting back into a Jaeger may very well crush those shards of broken glass into a fine powder for once and all.

And Nicholas J. Fury does not give a good goddamn about any of that, so you say nothing.

But then, you’ve always known the Marshall was a ruthless sonovabitch, long before Kaiju claws and cold arctic water stole the goddamn light of the sun and the stars and everything in between from you.

Two pilots died that day, even if your body had somehow made it back to shore and survived hypothermia, and shock, and all your other injuries.

So you say nothing, and you stare out the window into nothingness and try to not think about what comes next. Try not to feel like you’re walking to the gallows, dread growing in your bones, making you heavy, so impossibly heavy that the chopper shouldn’t be able to fly.

_ You know what you’re really hiding from, don’t you?  _ Your partner’s ghost flits at the corner of your eyes, smiling bold and brash and big as life itself - when she had one - as you steel yourself against reacting.  _ ‘Cus I do. _

You snort and flash a scowl at Fury as he lifts an eyebrow and asks, “Care to share with the class?”

“No.”

_ Go on, _ Carol says, jerking her head in Fury’s direction as she drops her forearms to her thighs, so comfortable and so confident.  _ Tell him. I don’t mind. _

You barely catch the shake of your head, and you can feel Fury’s eyes boring into you as you grip your harness tightly, so tightly, and force yourself to breathe slow and steady til he looks away finally.

Carol snorts now, affectionate and exasperated all at once. It's a sound you thought you'd grow old hearing, and even though it hurts now, it's so much better than the dead silence when she isn't there.

You try to imagine what it’d be like - telling Fury you see the ghost of your partner no matter where you go, how far you run. So real - so real you’d roll over and see her laying next to you on whatever shitty surface you were calling a bed that week and raise your hand to brush through that over-golden hair that fell like glittering goddamn sunshine around the two of you...only to pass through her and land on the cold blankets.

Or at the end of a shift, when you’d stand and stretch and the pair of you would look out, over the skeleton of the wall that will never be done, and feel the breeze - cold but freeing - tug at your body while her hair played out behind her.

Yeah.

Yeah, that’d go over well.

Carol snorts again.  _ He’d definitely kick you out for good if you told him that, y/n. _

_ Maybe _ , you think towards her,  _ or maybe he’d chalk it up to the drift and wouldn’t. _

_ Which one are you hoping for? _ She teases you and your chest...sweet J _ esus _ , the ache in your chest should’ve gotten easier to bear over the last four years, but it hasn’t, and it isn’t ever going to because the woman you loved more than life itself - more than piloting a Jaeger, more than laying in on Sundays, more than goddamn _anything_ \- is dead and you’re still here. Here. Alone. Without the smile made of supernovas and the sass that got you into as much trouble as both your skills combined could handle.

Carol’s smile is a little sad around the edges now.  _ I’ll always be in the drift for you, sweetheart. Always. _

And there it is - the real reason you’ve let yourself be maneuvered and steered despite the anxiety that’s making your palms sweat and clench and your heart race at just the thought of setting foot in another Jaeger.

Because as terrified as you are of just the thought…

You have to know if her ghost is _real_.


	3. Empty

The flight is over too quickly. 

The feel of Shatterdome is familiar - like sliding into an old leather jacket, already broken in in all the right places, worn soft and comfortable. Metal and oil and fuel and sweat and the salt of the ocean water. The sounds of a heavy lifter backing up, the choppers blades powering down, and in the distance, the gleaming lights of the major metropolis seven million or so people call home. The sounds, the smells...all of it, it’s like coming home from training to your parents’ house for the first time - everything is the same and different and all mixed up.

Except your home - your _real_ home - is lying dead and decomposing somewhere in the Atlantic in half a Jaegar off the Carolina coast, even as her ghost walks beside you.

"Don't leave me," You whisper to her, and catch Fury giving you the side eye as a red-haired woman meets you halfway across the pad.

Carol winks, the way she did when she was going to do whatever she pleased and your heart sinks because she’s gone a moment later, fading as Red starts giving Fury a precis, falling into step with him easily.

You clench the handle of your backpack - everything you can hold fits in it - and follow.

Order and chaos live side by side in a Dome. Everything and everyone with a place, a purpose, a function. And then when the sirens go off, when the monsters come...Order holds back chaos.

You shake off the less-literal ghosts of the past and try to keep track of the turns, mapping it out. And your mom used to say that your mall-rat days would never pay off...

The command hub is an intense buzz against your skin, so you let yourself melt off to the side, out of the way, and just watch. Some old faces, some new. You recognize a few of the coordinators, some of the techs who rush in and out, and you’re honestly glad no one gives you much of a look-see until Fury notices you still standing there. He jerks his thumb at you and Red raises one delicate, fine eyebrow at him in questions before she strides back across the room and takes you by the elbow.

“Fury wants me to get you settled in.”

“I’m not any happier to have a babysitter than you.” You point out as she all but drags you from the room. “Point me to my room and the showers and the mess. I’m a big girl, I can figure it out from there.”

That gets you an appraising once over. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Don’t worry, I’m lots of broken and fucked up too.” You half-joke.

She snorts, softer than Carol would’ve, but the tone is the same. “Natasha Romanov. You can call me Romanov. Not Nat though.”

“Whatever you say, Red.”

The appraisal goes a little deeper this time, and you realize you may have grossly miscalculated in the all-too-long seconds of silence. “You should be careful who you go showing claws to around here, y/l/n.” She smirks at you. “Most of us have claws of our own.”

It’s like being around a different version of Carol and also not. Red is...you pause for a second, think. She’s sharp, fine edges. A stiletto in the dark, a blade of black that shines like silk, like an oil slick. Carol was an exploding star, rocket fuel in a tank, that moment of free-fall...And yet...And yet, Red is the closest thing to familiar a person has felt in a long time and the response comes out naturally as breathing. “Kinky. I can be into that.”

That gets you a laugh, small but real as she leads you deeper into the dome, leading you down two levels. “Don’t take this personally, but I told Fury not to bring you here. We have enough to deal with.”  _ Without broken, unstable former pilots _ , goes unsaid, but it’s definitely there. "I think this whole idea is about seven kinds of fucked up."

“Fury does what he wants.”

“That he does.” She stops outside a door. “That’s yours. This level’s all pilots. I’m two doors down, technically, but I’m almost never there. Showers -” She points to the far end of the hall “And training center that way. Mess hall is up one flight.”

You find yourself unable to walk into the room that will become your home, your prison. “Ah. Tha- thanks. Who...who else is here?”

The look she gives you is level, and hard. “All of us who are left.”

And then Red spins on her neat little heels and is striding away just as efficiently as she did in step with Fury.

You push out one soft breath, and shove open the door.

It looks like a million other pilots’ quarters you’d seen before - functional, bare and naked bones of the two beds and a couch and a kitchenette that probably hasn’t been used in years. The walls are bare too, solid heavy concrete that feels like a comforting blanket around your shoulders.

Maybe...maybe you can do this after all.

You manage to shower, and make it to the mess hall and back before the grief hits you, leaves you curled in a ball on the floor next to the bed, unable to take a full breath in between sobs. You are in the place that physically feels like home, and it has never felt further from your reach than when you walked back into this room knowing that Carol - living, breathing, beautiful - will never be here with you again, and it's real in a way that it wasn't a day ago, or a year ago, or since you walked away from your last dome.

Carol's ghost lays beside you, and when you can finally force your body to uncurl, unclench, she looks at you with sadness and starlight in those beautiful eyes.

“Please don’t leave me,” You whisper again as she reaches for you, and for a moment, you let your eyes shut, and pretend you can feel her fingertips ghosting over your ear, down the side of your cheek.

_ You can always find me in the drift, sweetheart. _

You fall asleep between one breath and the next, exhausted and empty.


	4. Over The Cliff

You’re on your way to the training room when you see it.

A flash of gold - a flash of sunlit shades in a place the sun doesn’t reach- and the set of shoulders that scream ‘moving with purpose’ causes your heart to clench in your chest, stopping your breath in the crowded corridor you find yourself in the next morning.

_ Carol. _

You’re following without ever making the decision to, just like you always did. 

Carol Danvers, pride of the Pan-Atlantic command, holding your heart everywhere she went, how could you not? What was following her into battle when you’d long ago followed her into the kind of love you never thought you’d find, never find yourself worthy of?

Over a cliff, as you used to say when she’d ask if you were with her, and you’d meant it.

You just had never expected to survive the fall.

So you find yourself all but chasing that glint of gilding, and nearly lose it a couple of times, breaking into a jog more than once to bring yourself closer.

Everything else is a blur, a passing of watercolor sounds and blurry landscape of people and hallways and you can’t bring yourself to care because everything -every last molecule- in you is screaming for your lost partner, your lover, your lodestone.

Until finally you round the corner and find yourself pressed to the wall by an arm, lifted so your boots barely touch, and pinned under a glare that’s as fierce as it is blue.

“Why are you following me?” The snarl shakes you loose from the faded tunnel vision, leaving you staring up at the man you’ve been following and you want to cry. How could you have possibly mistaken him for Carol? Are you that far gone?

“Thought…” You choke out and the massive forearm against your throat eases up enough for you to breathe. “Thought you were someone else.” Your gaze drops, snags on the name on his jacket.

Rogers.

Ah. Shit.

The most famous face in the Pan-Pacific and you didn’t even notice.

God, maybe you _are_ just...broken beyond repair, you think as he sneers. “Yeah, right. Who the hell are you?”

But he’s backing off, withdrawing the arm and the hand that had gripped you and spun you into the wall. Now he’s just...looming. Shoulders huge and solid, folding arms over his chest as he stares you down with the kind of calm, unblinking gaze of a man who’s top dog and knows it.

It scrapes at you - how many times had you and Carol come up against that look in basic, then in pilot training? And as female combatants?

“Fury brought me in.” You say as answer, and see a flash of comprehension before he wipes his face clean and gives you a once-over.

So whatever Fury has planned for you, Rogers knows what it is.

It’s instinctive to lift your chin as his eyes move down, then back up. Head tilted defiantly, you know it reads as ‘fuck you, buddy’ and that’s just fine because this casual condescension he’s putting off is doing something to your insides you haven’t felt too often as of late- he’s pissing you off.

“You’re who Fury found?” There’s anger in him, too, though you don’t understand why. “This isn’t going to work.”

“Since I don’t know what ‘this’ is, I can’t say if it’ll work. But if it involves your sunny disposition…” You smile as you watch a muscle in that carved-from-rock jaw twitch. “I’m not going to say I’m optimistic.”

The urge to squirm under that too-blue stare is strong, but you manage to quash it.

“Fury didn’t tell you?” He can read the answer across your face. “He really didn’t.” His eyes fix on the side of your face, and you have to fight the urge to pull your hair over the scars that lurk there along the hairline, and down your jaw and neck. Half burned into your skin by the shock of the shattering helmet, they're distinctive enough to out you. “Wait a minute, you’re…”

“Yup. Y/N. At your service.”

You didn’t expect him to soften under the knowledge of who you are, but he does, marginally, but at least it's not pity. “I guess I’d better introduce you to the plan then.”

Walking into the medical wing behind Rogers gives you a bad moment - breath catching, heart pumping - that sends you flashing back to the early days of surviving the severing of the drift’s neural handshake. It’s the smell, you know - the smell of cleanser and disinfectant and the low beeping of various readouts and the quiet hum of nurses’ voices.

Rogers sees it, but doesn’t slow his stride as he heads back to one of the private rooms.

And you know.

Without Fury telling you, without following Rogers into that room.

You know what Fury brought you here to do.

Even as your feet bring you to the door, and your eyes move to the occupant, half-propped upright, left arm nothing but a bandaged stump, eyes glassy from the high-dose of painkillers dripping through the IV. 

You are not a whole person, let alone a pilot.

Which is why they need you.

“I can’t do this.”

And you turn on your heel and run.


	5. Life Yet Living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Another day, another chapter of fanfic instead of apps...goddammit self...

_ You can't keep running _ _baby_...Carol's voice in your ear as your feet carry you back to the medical bay. _Can't keep doing this to yourself..._

"I'm not doing anything." You tell her. "Kinda the point, Car."

Her sigh is tired. _You aren't crazy, baby. You're perfectly sane._

"Which is why I'm talking to my dead girlfriend."

She's fading out as you catch the tones of heated conversation from the private room in medical, and you want to take the words back. _I told you, baby, I'm always here for you._

And then she's gone and you can here Rogers' not-quite-shouting from inside the room.

“You can’t use  _ her _ , Fury.” Rogers’ tone is snappy, and even with the door to his copilot’s room barely cracked open, it takes no hard listening on your part to eavesdrop on the conversation. “She’s not even a whole person. Not after…”

You barely stifle a wince at that.

He isn’t wrong, is he?

And hearing it’s probably what you deserve, running off like that.

“I’m not asking for your opinion, Rogers.” Marshall Fury’s voice is in no-arguments mode. “We need a pilot for  _ Brooklyn Bullet _ .  _ You _ need a copilot, and until Barnes is back on his feet...well, we can’t let word get out that  _ Brooklyn _ ’s better half can’t fight - we  _ need _ the people to see  _ Brooklyn _ back out there.” There’s a loaded moment of silence. “You know I’m right, Rogers. So what’s really crawled up that uptight ass of yours?”

“One, you have no idea if that woman is even capable of piloting, drifting, or fighting.” Rogers’ contempt could cut through the Wall with that sharp tone, and you chance a peek into the room to see him pacing, hands ruffling that burnt-gold hair, eyes flashing blue fire. “Two, there’s no way we’ll be drift compatible.”

“Your compatibility scores ranked second for both of you in the Match.” Fury interrupts, and you can tell the news surprises Rogers as much as it does you. “The only reason you weren’t tested for direct compatibility in training was that you each had one candidate in your respective hemispheres that already beat the compatibility charts - there was no point in it, really. She and Danvers, you and Barnes. Except,” Fury continued ruthlessly. “Danvers is dead and Barnes is out of commission.”

“You have no idea if this will even work.” Rogers sinks into the chair beside the hospital bed, and despite the words, his tone is considering.

“Rogers,” Exasperation laces Fury’s voice now. “If we put the two of you in the ring and you can’t drift, that’s the end of it. I’ll let her get back to the slow suicide she was planning and you’ll go through the Match with all available candidates til we find someone who can step in.”

Fury’s words make you bristle. 

You weren’t committing ‘slow suicide’.

Beside you, Carol quirks an eyebrow.  _ You sure about that, darlin’? _

“She’ll never pass the psych eval, let alone the qualifying physicals.”

Fury snorts now. “Show me a single damn Jaeger pilot two years out of active service who  _ does _ pass a psych eval. And you can come in, y/n.” He tosses it your way casually. “Since you’re eavesdropping anyway.”

No point in dragging your feet now.

You enter the room, shut the door behind you, and lean against the wall opposite the Marshall and Rogers and the unconscious Barnes. “Never stopped training.”

“What?”

“The physical training.” You bite your lip, let it go with the admission. “The training was a...routine, a constant. After I left the last Dome. Gave me structure. I’ll probably need to brush up on combat skills, but I can keep up well enough.”

“See?” Fury says.

Rogers just shakes his head, and it  _ bothers _ you.

“What exactly is your beef with me, Rogers?” You ask, in your most needling, annoying, little sister voice. Better to lance this boil now and have it done with anyway. Plus, you might enjoy the puckered look on his face from being directly challenged.

“Maybe I just don’t want to drift with someone who’s fucking crazy.”

“Is that the technical term these days?” You sneer, and the ghost of your dead love cheers you on.

“You lost your partner in your last fight." It's an accusation despite the controlled tone. "Don’t try to tell me…” 

That massive body heaves as he sucks in a lungful of air, eyes a little wild, and then you watch him lock it all down with single-minded focus.  It’s a little terrifying, you have to admit. It’s a level of control that’s frightening, almost inhuman, and it moves Rogers up into the do-not-fuck-with category, right next to Fury. Or it would, if your survival instincts still worked.

“You somehow survived - physically - the loss of your copilot, mid-drift. Can you honestly tell me your mind did too? Because when we lost...When Bucky lost his arm,” Rogers takes another breath, steadying himself. “I  _ felt  _ that. I don’t think anyone could lose their copilot and have much of a mind left after, and  _ Brooklyn _ needs that. To do what we do, it’s not just brawn. I need a partner who can handle tactics and strategy and won’t go chasing the rabbit.” The look he levels at you answers his next question. “Do you think you’re up for that?”

“No.” Your honesty causes his eyes to widen for a second. “I don’t. But I don’t have a choice, do I, Marshall Fury?”

Fury shrugs. “Nope.”

Curiosity from Rogers, and again, you watch him lock the emotion away before it has time to settle on his face, into his body language. “This still won’t work.”

“Then let’s find out.” You say with a confidence you definitely don’t feel. “And when we’re done wasting all of our time, I can go back to my ‘slow suicide’ and you all can fuck right off.”

_ There’s my girl, _ Carol grins and your heart stutters in your chest as she perches on the edge of Barnes’ bed and swings her feet.  _ There’s life left in you yet. _

You shake your head to refute her words and watch her smile turn sad.

_ Hey, which one of us is the dead one? I think I know what I’m talking about. And you,  _ She hops off the bed and stands before you, pressing one ghostly hand against your face and oh...oh you can’t breathe and you don’t want to because your skin tingles along the edges of her incorporeal form.  _ You aren’t done yet, baby. _

Your eyes slide shut at the endearment, and when you open them, Carol is gone and Rogers and Fury are watching you closely.

"What?"

The look on Rogers' face clearly says 'you want me to work with this?' and even Fury doesn't look so sure of his plan.

Barnes stirs, twisting restlessly and letting out a soft groan, pulling their focus from you as ice-blue eyes open. They're groggy with pain and drugs, and they catch on you for a split second, slide over to Rogers.

"Stevie?"

You and Fury do your best to melt into the wallpaper as Rogers' hands finds his copilot's, a quick squeeze. A physical message - I am here. "Hey, Buck. Getting all your beauty sleep in."  


Barnes' eyes are already sliding shut again. "Don't...don't do anything stupid, punk."  


"Jerk." Rogers' smile fades as quickly as Barnes' awareness, the pilot sliding back into sleep as quickly as he slid out.

The intimacy of it is like a knife to your insides, a picture of home you will never touch again.

"So, when do we do this?"  


It's Fury who answers. "Psych eval first." He continues at the look he gets from you and Rogers. "Not the traditional kind. I got a guy. Then...then we'll put you in the ring, run the compatibility simulations. Tomorrow, day after at the latest. If we're going to put this act up in front of the whole world, we can't let much more time pass."  


"Fine." You and Rogers' speak the single world simultaneously, exchange looks of surprise.

Well, it'll be interesting at least.


	6. Only Once Upon A Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Okay, sinking into the rhythm of the story finally finding my footing it feels like - once I get over the hurdle of apps this week, it should be a bit easier to update more regularly.

The man doing your psych eval introduces himself as ‘just Phil, please’ as he gestures for you to take a seat on the couch of your quarters.

He’s an unassuming looking man, the very picture of nondescript. There are lines around his eyes and mouth that speak to laughter, but there’s a weight and hardness in his eyes that tells you this is no simple civilian psychiatrist. 

No, the man seated across from you has served in some armed forces or another, and he has seen some shit.

You go along with his questions, answer as honestly as you’re capable. You don’t want to get back in a Jaeger, and letting this man crawl around inside your head can only help with that.

“I think it’s unfair as fuck.” You say in response to his last question, and you don’t bother to hide the festering bitterness as it swells in your chest, an ache behind your sternum, an acid drip in your stomach. “I think...I think sometimes it would’ve been better if I’d never fallen in love with her. But I did, and I can’t regret it, even if I wish she was here and I was gone.”

“Not every love story gets a happily ever after,” Phil says, voice and eyes soft and understanding. “Sometimes they only get a once upon a time.” The certainty in his voice hits you, and he smiles as he catches the understanding flashing across your face. “There aren’t many of us, you know? Pilots who survive the severing of the neural handshake mid-fight.”

Shock holds you silent for a long moment.

You’ve never met anyone else who lost their partner and survived.

“What...what was her name?” You ask finally.

“Lola.” He leans back, a faraway smile you recognize playing with the corners of his mouth. “I still see her, you know?” He sees your surprise and leans forward, dropping forearms to thighs.“And I’m not talking metaphorically. The drift...when you lose someone when you’re in the drift with them...it stays with you. But you knew that already didn’t you?” He holds up a hand to calm you. “It’s okay. You’re much more lucid than I was at this point.” He chuckles softly. "It took me...four, maybe five years? To realize I wasn't actually crazy."

"How is seeing dead people not actually crazy?" You ask.

He leans back in his seat. "The mind is...the mind is a complex organ. Meat and jelly and electricity - that's what makes up our experience of reality. When you share the drift with someone...when you make that connection...you've forged something that crosses realities."

You snort. "Sounds more like a science fiction special than anything else."

"There are stranger things in heaven and earth..."

"Did you really just quote the Bard at me? What kind of shit psychiatrist are you?"

"The kind who knows a whole helluva lot about where you are right now. And no matter what Fury thinks, no matter what the rest of the world thinks...you're not just a broken pilot, y/n." His eyes glint a little, focusing on your face like a hawk. "And I think you know that, or you wouldn't be fighting so hard to prove otherwise."

You're shaking your head in denial. "You're as fucked up as Fury if you think I belong anywhere near the cockpit of a Jaeger."

"You're afraid." The words drop an icy rock in your gut. The quiet way he says them, completely sure of them. "You're afraid if you step back into the drift you'll lose her for good. Lose yourself, who you were."

Your sneer could draw blood as you try to draw your walls back up. "And you're going to tell me that's not the case?"

The smile he gives you says he knows what you're doing, and why. "No. You lost who you were when Carol Danvers and half your Jaeger sank into the ocean. You'll never get that part of yourself back."

"So we're agreed - I'm not a real person anymore and this is a shit idea."

"Oh it may be a shit idea," Phil agrees. "But you are a real person, y/n. A whole person."

"Can you tell me..." You _have_ to know, and it makes you burn, urgently, and the words rip themselves out of you before you can call them back. "If I step into the drift again...with someone else...will I lose the rest of her?"

He meets your eyes steadily. "You're going to have to step inside the drift again to find out."


	7. No More Holding Back

“Fuck you,” You snarl as Rogers tosses you against the mat. Again.

It’s been like this for hours - Rogers testing your combat skills, which are, admittedly, rustier than you’d like. And your mind...your mind is still absorbing your ‘psych eval’ and everything said and unsaid.

_ Sometimes they only get once upon a time… _

_...You wouldn't be fighting so hard to prove otherwise. _

_ Step inside the drift again to find out… _

And while the ghost of strange psychiatrists distracts you, Rogers sweeps a leg out and takes your feet out from under you for the dozenth time today while you cuss him out in the most colorful language you have.

He snorts and you see actual, literal red. “Real tactical response there, y/n.”

“Eat shit.” You huff as you push yourself back to your feet. “This is a waste of time. We’re not drift compatible. You can’t force this kind of thing.”

“I’m not the one forcing anything,  _ sweetheart _ .” He sinks so much of a sneer into that one word it cuts past all the bullshit of the here and now, and you are left with the taunts of your training officers and male trainees and far too many goddamn men in your life.

Your eyes narrow and you have the distinct pleasure of watching him realize he’s maybe gone too far this time, sliding one foot back half a step in retreat.

_ You're afraid… _

Phil was right. You are afraid, and you are suddenly so damn tired of it. Tired of being afraid, tired of carrying it around with you like a physical weight as you and Rogers move towards starting positions again.

_ Let go, _ baby, Carol's voice in your ear. _Just let go._

The rest of the room falls away, along with your restraint.

Because he’s right - you have been forcing it.

Forcing yourself to keep your temper in check, forcing yourself to not bring your all. Forcing yourself to stay out of the flow state of mind that precludes drift-state because goddammit you don’t want to be here, don’t want  _ this _ .

For a minute, your desire to kick his ass washes it all away - the facility, the audience that's been drifting by, the reasons - the ever-long list of reasons - why this isn’t a good idea.

And then you’re moving.

Not like a fighter.  Not like a warrior.

No, you move like water -that's how Carol described it once - if water were predatory and given human form. Liquid, sinuous. Strike, block, dodge, step in...just another half turn…

The takedown is perfect. Textbook. It flows from you like silk, easy as breathing, as you force him to his knees with a shoulder lock that would at best dislocate the joint if he hadn’t gone with it.

“Eat. Shit.” You repeat as he looks up at you, the expression in those too-blue eyes inscrutable and the moment of connection sucks you in like an undertow as you both pant for air.

The space between you feels electric and stretched taut and in a moment...

The clapping from the sideline draws you back to yourself as Fury makes his way to the mat, never changing the pace of that sardonic applause.

“Finally.” He says. “Welcome back, y/n.”

You’d kill him for this if you could, and you let him see it as you bare your teeth in a snarl and release Roger’s arm from the joint lock.

You didn’t want to feel this - this rightness - ever again. 

After all, as long as you could walk away from this, you wouldn’t have to fully acknowledge the gaping chasm Carol’s death left in your chest.

You have to get out of here, you realize. You have to get out. Right now.

So you do what your instincts are telling you and you run like hell, leaving the training room in your wake.


End file.
